Riders of the Storm (28 page)

The wind and falling snow blurred their surroundings, turned the world into a small space, trapped them inside. As intimate as the canopy, vistas behind curtains of vine or rain, havens within the shadow of a frond. Aryl lifted her hand, touched his chest.
We were good friends.

They'd been more. She'd loved him once, wanted nothing more than to be together, always, had saved his life instead of Costa's for that love.

We can be again, Heart-kin. Help me have my Chosen.
His
lust
was like a slap.
I can't wait much longer. Please.

She pushed him away. “You always did talk too much, Bern.” And she'd been a fool once already. Love. Her lips twisted. The word she'd given Marcus counted for so little, in the end, to an Om'ray. Snowdrops melted on her eyelashes; they could have been tears. Bern deluded himself if he thought Oran would let him be her friend in any way.

But he was right—they had been heart-kin. She couldn't forget that.

“I can't make any promises,” Aryl said at last. “I don't know yet if I can move through the M'hir safely—let alone if I should teach anyone else. We've been busy staying alive. You can't make promises either,” she cautioned when he made to speak. “You don't control the Adepts.”

“But you'll speak for us. You'll let us stay.” With
triumph.

He did know her, too well. Aryl tightened her shields. “It's up to Oran and Hoyon. Sona needs more Om'ray, not more problems. If they'll stay—and work—under our terms?” However unlikely that seemed. “I'll do my best.”

Heart-kin.

“Don't make me sorry, Bern,” she warned.

Heart-kin.
With that cloying
affection
.

“Once. Not now.”

Another warning, if he was wise.

 

Aryl had done harder things than enter the crowded meeting hall and smile, but those had involved imminent death and pain at the hands—or claws—of the not-
real
. This was a room full of her people, her family. If she couldn't accept the Grona in the same spirit, she owed Bern her best effort not to see them as intruders.

Which wasn't easy when Oran, sitting wrapped in a blanket in pride of place on the new bench, gave her a look of pure fury.

So much for peace in that family.

Her outer clothing dripping wet, she stayed near the wall by the door, using the moment to tuck the geoscanner securely away, then hung her coat and scarf on wooden pegs hammered between wall beams. Bern, who'd come through the door behind her, did the same. She felt his stare on her leg and arm wraps, her tunic. She was still Yena, as he was not.

Before she could work her way to a quiet seat near a back corner, Haxel beckoned her to her side, near the fire. Those seated between lifted their hands to hers. Without hesitation, Aryl brushed her fingertips across them, receiving their
welcome,
sending back
warmth
. How it looked to the Grona, she didn't know or care.

Bern, used to how things had been, was probably scandalized.

A comforting order had developed. Their eldest, Husni and Cetto, Morla and Lendin, sat on stacks of folded blankets, in the warmest part of the room by the fire, safe from the worst drafts. Their largest families had their spots, the Kessa'ats here, the Uruus with Seru, there. Myris and Ael, looking worn but happy, sat with Juo Vendan. Of Juo's kin, Haxel rarely stayed in one place, and either Rorn or Gijs were on watch. The unChosen, Kayd, Cader, and Fon, were together—usually as near to where the food was as was polite.

They had not, Aryl noticed, added Kran Caraat to their ranks. He sat with Hoyon and Oswa, off to one side. Hard to tell they were close kin.

Yao wasn't with her parents, though she had to be here, somewhere. Aryl sensed no glow in Sona beyond Gijs on guard outside the door. She looked around the room; with the improvements to the roof and smoke vent, the air was clear. Was the child with Ziba? She spotted Ziba curled between Seru and her mother, as if for protection. Which, now that Aryl thought about it, was a very good idea. Ziba's shields were not yet mature. They confined most of her emotions, allowed her to roam from her mother without disturbing the minds of other Om'ray, but they were less than trustworthy around an upset younger Om'ray.

The last thing they needed right now would be the two of them expressing their personal reactions and needs with all the strength of instinct.

Aryl took a place beside Haxel, every tenth of this day expressed in the relief of being off her feet. She took the bowl passed to her by the Kessa'ats, gesturing gratitude to all involved with her free hand. “No Oud.”

“What did he want?”

“Bern?” She blew steam from a spoonful she was too tired to want. “Freedom from Grona's rules. Rules concerning their Adept.”

“That's the way of it?” The scar twisted along the First Scout's cheek. “No wonder he looks to be sitting on a thickle. Wouldn't let anyone interfere with mine.”
Fondness.
Across the room, Rorn sud Vendan glanced their way and broke into one of his rare smiles.

The unChosen, among themselves, chafed at the connection between Joined pairs, felt excluded from what they envied and longed for—their own completion. Hadn't she complained about Chosen secrets and their silly, besotted looks? But lately, what she noticed wasn't what was the same about the Chosen, but what was different. Each pair was unique. Haxel and Rorn went their separate ways and showed no obvious affection, yet Aryl couldn't imagine one without the other. Ael and Myris were miserable on their own. Tilip and Veca might argue every waking moment, but they worked shoulder-to-shoulder whenever they could.

Costa and Leri? They'd stay apart for tenths for no reason than the joy of reuniting again. There had been a time she'd thought them fools.

Bern and Oran. Those were the fools. The connection between them should have brought them joy. It should have Joined the best of each. From all she could tell, so far it had brought out the worst.

Or maybe it was Grona. Hoyon and Oswa didn't appear too happy with each other either.

“Think they'd stay?”

Aryl startled back to herself. “I don't know. Do we want them?”

“That may not be up to us. Look.” Haxel nodded to where Chaun lay, Weth supporting his shoulders.

Oran knelt beside them, on a folded blanket. Her hair rose around her head as she passed her coupled hands over Chaun's chest. She had the rapt attention of every Om'ray in the low-ceiling hall.

Chaun coughed, then took a deep, free breath. He looked up in wonder. “Nothing hurts.” Weth, though her eyes were closed, smiled tremulously. Both gestured gratitude as Oran rose.

The Healer staggered and would have fallen if Bern and Husni hadn't hurried to support her. Whether planned or necessary, it left the right impression. Smiles, more gestures, murmurs of appreciation, followed as Bern escorted her back to her bench seat.

“Nicely done,” Haxel commented.

Aryl concentrated on her stew.

A moment later, Ael and Myris approached. Aryl stood quickly, and lifted her hands to her aunt, assessing how she looked. Weary, yes, but the wound looked months healed and her smile was every bit as bright as it used to be. When their fingers touched, the M'hir was its normal, distant roar to her inner sense. “You're better,” she said, relieved.

Ael gestured gratitude with one hand, his other arm firmly around his Chosen. “Thanks to you as much as our new Healer.”

“No need for that,” Aryl said, hoping he took her meaning. She wanted no questions from Oran about her own ability.

“Of course,” he agreed, a twinkle in his eye. “Now, we're off to bed.”

“Ael insists I need more rest.” Myris' smile acquired a mischievous dimple. “I haven't heard that excuse for years.”

Definitely better. Aryl let them feel her
joy
.

Around them, things had settled to a quiet buzz of conversation. Impolite, to speak mind-to-mind in front of others. The topics were carefully neutral: projects underway, projects to be tackled, the not-unpleasant but different flavor of tonight's stew. Sona's Om'ray, carefully avoiding their visitors.

Not Grona's way. Aryl was sure every exile remembered—not happily—the questioning they'd faced before Grona's full Council. Everyone but Ziba had had to give their version of the events that led them from Yena to the mountains.

They'd all lied, of course. They'd kept the secret of the stranger's aircar, claiming Oud had brought them. They'd omitted being exiled for their new and Forbidden Talents, for their willingness to change, claiming instead the Tikitik's attack on Yena meant some had to leave, to preserve enough supplies for the rest.

Maybe that was why no one asked an accounting from these new arrivals. They feared lies in return.

When had Om'ray come to this? Wrong. Wrong.

Aryl found herself on her feet. Voices hushed as all turned to look at her.

Haxel radiated
satisfaction
.

What would Taisal do? Civil behavior. Aryl combined a bow that wasn't quite Grona with the sweeping two-handed gesture of gratitude that was pure Yena, directed at Oran. The adult Grona gave halting bows in return. “Welcome to Sona, Oran. Bern—” beside his Chosen on the bench, “—Hoyon and Oswa. Kran and—” the tiny child was impossible to see among the rest “—Yao.” When in doubt, be formal. “We are Sona Clan, and we are pleased to offer you shelter from the storm.” Which cooperatively moaned and hammered against their newly stout walls.

As everyone reacted to the thought of being outside those walls—Oswa with wide eyes and a grab for a blanket—Aryl continued, gaining confidence. “Thank you, Oran, for putting your duty as Healer and Adept ahead of your own well-deserved rest.” She paused to let the exiles once more gesture their thanks. Chaun and Weth cuddled against the wall, Husni close by.

Oran managed to bow her head graciously. Her shields, to Aryl's perception, were flawless.

As were her own. Aryl smiled. “I believe I speak for everyone when I invite you to stay, if that's your wish. Sona will need strong hands and backs for the work ahead.”

The quiet laughter wasn't altogether kind. Of the Grona, only Bern had calluses, and those weren't fresh. Oran? Likely never sweated a day in her life.

Sona had no room for idlers.

Or lies. “You didn't come because we needed a Healer. You came to Sona on Passage, hoping to stay. I'm sure everyone is curious…why.” The hush following her statement was tangible. Aryl could see Hoyon gathering himself to be first to speak. Oran's face turned sickly pale; Bern gathered her in his arms.

Aryl sensed threads of
anxiety
drawing the exiles close. Most wanted to put the past behind them. Was she proposing to reveal their truth in turn?

There was nothing to gain either way, she decided. The exiles were ready to forget Yena. As for the Grona? If she revealed Bern's plight, she'd humiliate him and Oran in front of everyone. If she told the truth about what the Adepts sought—to trade their help and unChosen for knowledge of her ability in the M'hir—she'd be forced to make that potentially dangerous decision here and now.

Leaving her one choice.

“We've come for the same reason,” she stated. “To shelter from a storm. Sona has given us that and more—a new Clan, a new life. Does it matter why any of us started the journey? We're here. Only what we do together, from this moment, is important.

“I say anyone who comes to Sona for shelter should leave their past on the road. I say we should accept you for who you are and what you do here.”
DO YOU AGREE, SONA?
She sent to every mind, with all her strength, unintentionally dipping into the M'hir to reinforce her question.

The answer came back in an outpouring of
warmth
and
welcome
. The exiles surged to their feet and—rare for Om'ray—clustered around the startled Grona, offering their hands, patting shoulders. There were tears in not a few eyes.

Aryl stood apart with Haxel, watching. She'd done what she could for Bern: silenced the Grona before they could lie or expose themselves, and given them a way to become part of Sona.

“Hoyon looks ready to choke,” the First Scout commented.

Aryl shrugged. “He didn't plan to stay. He may not. Depends how persuasive Oran can be.”

“They'll leave when they get what they want.”

Watching Oswa smile shyly at Taen, Yao chase Ziba through a grove of adult legs, Aryl shrugged again. “Maybe they'll find more here than they expected.”

Haxel snorted. “More work, that's for sure. We'd best keep watch on them.”

“I couldn't refuse,” she admitted, now worried. Likely the older Chosen's intention. “He's still—well, I couldn't.”

“Think they didn't know?” Haxel laughed at whatever showed on Aryl's face. “Take it as a compliment. You look for the best. I prepare for the worst.”

Which had she just done?

P
ASSAGE WAS DANGEROUS. Other unChosen, Enris assured himself, suffered and often died trying to reach their one true Choice. Or the Chooser easiest to reach. He'd never been fully clear on that part. They suffered and often died, with dignity. Alone.

While his fate was to be inflicted with unasked, unwelcome company. First that perverse Oud had dragged him through its tunnels, and now this…

“You don't have to come,” he said wearily.

Thought Traveler barked its laugh. “But you are such a curiosity, Enris Mendolar. How can I leave before seeing how you end?”

The Tikitik had matched him stride for stride all day. At first, Enris had tried to ignore it. Then argue with it. Finally, he'd given up.

The creature had its use. Hard Ones shuddered and rolled aside well ahead of their approach, clearing an uncanny path. Thought Traveler claimed to regularly hunt them in this area. If so, it wasn't particularly effective. Or the Hard Ones bred quickly. There was no end to them in sight.

The mountainside was in sight, too. His other problem. With every step closer, its slope looked worse: cliffs steeper than those on the other side of the valley—the ones he'd avoided climbing; the few ravines choked with loose stone. Presumably, at least some of them alive.

“I may end here,” he muttered.

The Tikitik had unfortunately good hearing, for a creature without obvious ears. “Any Yena could climb it.”

He didn't bother to argue with it. Firstnight was here. The weather was turning colder, windier—warning of another storm on the way, to make life perfect. Enris tightened the straps on his pack. Down the valley it would have to be, a difficult but not impossible path. The ground was disturbed right to the rock, heaved into loose mounds higher than his head. He'd have to find a way between them.

“Why go that way?” Thought Traveler bounded ahead and stopped, forcing Enris to do the same. Facing it put him too close for comfort to the cluster of worms that covered its mouth, and he took an involuntary step back. “I thought you were on Passage to Vyna.”

“As you've noticed, I'm not Yena,” Enris said dryly. “I'll go around, thank you. You don't have to come.” He tried to pass the creature.

Its hand shot out, fastening on his arm like a metal clamp before he could avoid it. “Do you seek death? The ground is not what it seems, Tuana. Look carefully.”

The first line of heaved dirt rose within a few steps. Enris obliged the Tikitik by studying it, since he couldn't shake its grip. Dirt. With the occasional wisp of dead plant. Stones. More dirt. The whole zigged and zagged at angles to the mountain, like a giant furrow in a field. Weathered, solid, and altogether unremarkable.

Except for its origins. Enris stiffened. “Is that what you meant—when you said Sona was in more danger than I was? Are the Oud about to reshape this again?”

The Tikitik released him. Enris didn't bother glaring at the creature—in his experience, the not-
real
didn't care about his opinion of their actions. “I'm impressed, Tuana. You know your neighbors.”

He had to warn her—to urge Aryl and the exiles to run—but even as Enris formed a sending, his concentration was broken by a hideous scream.

“Ah,” said Thought Traveler calmly. “Here is a neighbor you do not know.”

Another scream. Ears ringing, half crouched, Enris desperately looked for its source. Finally looked up…

…into a red mouth gaping wide enough to swallow him whole.

“Remain still, Om'ray.”

Oh, he was doing that. Running wouldn't accomplish anything.

Wings like storm clouds thrashed the air as the beast descended, stirring up dust until he had to throw up an arm to protect his eyes. It landed on six long, clawed feet, knees—it had knees!—bent to take the force. The wings—there were two pairs, clear and veined in black—remained outstretched and rigid. The body was thin, tapered, covered with fine brown hair. Its head swung low, regarding him—now that its enormous mouth was closed—with two pairs of large eyes. The neck was elongated, like the Tikitik's, but sagged with wrinkled skin, as if usually swollen.

Enris lowered his arm and rose to his full height. Around that neck, behind the head, was a band of cloth, marked in symbols. “Yours?”

The head shook violently, spittle flying from the edges of its mouth to pock the ground and Enris' boots. He didn't move. Thought Traveler barked. “Impressive again, Tuana. Most do not take their first sight of an
esan
well.” Another bark. “Likely because they know it will be their last.”

“If you'd wanted something to eat me,” Enris countered, “you'd have left me to the Hard Ones.”

The esan flapped its head again, as if aggravated by his voice.

“It's true, you are a rare entertainment. More so if you survive your Passage. I would enjoy a familiar face among the Vyna.” For some reason, it barked amusement.

“I'll survive.”

It wasn't Thought Traveler he promised, but the creature regarded him with all its eyes. “Then listen as I will tell you, Enris Mendolar of Tuana Om'ray, what may increase your chances. Leave your pack. Take only what you can carry on your body.”

The Tikitik was insane. “My supplies—”

“Of no use if you are dead. Hurry or not. It is your choice.”

Hurry? What did it know? Enris shook off his pack, furiously concentrating, striving to
reach
Aryl. She was distant…too distant. He dumped the contents on the dirt, grabbing what he had to have.
ARYL!!!
No answer. Her rope went around his waist, her longknife through that makeshift belt. What food he could ram into pockets. He already had his pouch, with the firebox and wafer. Her knot of hair.
ARYL!!!!!! BEWARE THE OUD!!
Enris trembled inside with effort and didn't know if she'd heard.

The M'hir sang to him, its ripples of black behind his eyes, its surges of power so close, too close. He dared let it come…

A rush of wind, real wind full of fresh dust, knocked him flat. Before he could do more than sputter, another rush and a scream…

And claws clenched around his body, pinning one arm, pulling him off the ground. Enris fought to free himself…

“Don't jump yet, Tuana,” he heard. “You'll know when.”

Another rush of wind, this time free of dust. They were airborne and rising!

The esan's wings gave one final full beat, then began to vibrate rapidly, chattering his teeth. It climbed with bewildering speed. A fall now, Enris judged, would break every bone in his body—although landing on the Tikitik would have made that worthwhile. And still it climbed.

He hooked his free arm around the leg that held him and did his best not to look down.

Had Aryl heard him? Would the Oud attack Sona again—or had that been part of Thought Traveler's “amusement”?

Was he being carried over the mountain or to the esan's nest, like a stolen trinket clutched by a loper? Trinket or meal?

“Where are you taking me?” Enris shouted angrily.

The esan shook its head. One of its rearward legs stretched past him to scratch vigorously at its neck, causing the creature to slip alarmingly toward the rock face before it recovered.

Don't talk to the flying monster, he told himself.

 

Enris had flown before. Twice. Once in an Oud aircar. Once in the strangers'. Since he'd been unable to see out during either flight, he remembered only stomach-wrenching sensations and the fear of not-knowing. Though the strangers' had a comfortable bench.

Now that he had an unimpeded view, he preferred the not-knowing fear.

The claws' grip wasn't too painful. There were three, none constricting his breathing. The obvious answer, that the creature was accustomed to carrying something alive, wasn't as reassuring as it might be. Tuana might not have Yena's wild abundance, but the fields contained a small, nasty hunter that carried its living prey below ground. Croptenders liked it. Being in the prey's position, Enris felt differently.

If he'd had both arms free, he would have used the rope to secure himself to the leg, not to mention had the longknife ready to use.

Probably as well he didn't, Enris decided. Thought Traveler had warned him to be ready to jump. And the esan wouldn't notice a blade five times longer than his.

Jump. He swallowed bile. Not now.

The esan hadn't flown over the mountain. No, after flying high enough to make him ill, it had elected to fly into it, choosing one of the ravines carved into the stone for its road. A winding, jagged, water-rock-ice-filled cavity with shadows and teethlike protrusions and—he closed his eyes hastily—the occasional very sharp going-to-die bend. Wind whistled and moaned. The sun barely touched this place; his feet were numb, although his boots had stayed on. At times, the esan's wings brushed both sides. Rock tumbled free—those wings weren't as delicate as they looked.

Or the mountain was about to crumble. Enris swallowed again.

It was taking him toward Vyna. His kind were somewhere ahead, their combined glow closer and warmer with each miserable moment. He clung to that comfort as tightly as he clung to the esan.

His kind were behind as well, one isolated, most together, others on the move. Beyond them was the solid glow of Grona. Below—so far below.

Enris grinned. What did they think of him, so far above?

His grin faded. Would Aryl think he'd abandoned her and her people for the strangers or the Oud? That his avowed purpose had been nothing more than an excuse to leave without argument? That he'd found something to trade for a flight in one of their air-cars?

“I wish,” he said fervently. The esan shuddered, but didn't scratch. Perhaps this journey through rock was something it considered dangerous, too.

Also not reassuring.

 

Enris found it harder and harder to stay conscious. It wasn't sleep, though he was exhausted to his core. The air had chilled until it hurt to breathe; he shivered constantly now. His mind felt slow and thick. Most terrifying of all, he found himself confused by where he was and why, and fought to hold his shields.

Through it all, the valiant esan flew, wings quivering. He no longer feared it would eat him. Why carry a burden this far it could simply swallow? Its exertion made it a companion, a friend, a brother—or maybe sister, since he couldn't tell its sex.

Had his token come loose? He should have put it in a pocket, not left it on his coat. Without it, the esan might as well eat him, or drop him. Vyna would be within their rights to refuse him entry. Refuse him their secrets.

If they had any…

Enris shook his head, hard. He couldn't afford maudlin worries. Thought Traveler had warned him to jump—that he'd know when.

The joke would be on him if he jumped at the wrong moment and died, after flying through a mountain.

He couldn't
touch
Aryl's mind. He'd tried. Too far. A fine time to learn his limits; the worst imaginable time to attempt a connection through the M'hir. He could hardly think past the vibration of the esan's wings, the noise of the wind. Impossible to concentrate and hold himself together.

Sona was on its own, for now.

 

Enris roused, feeling a change. Warmth, that was it. The air was warmer and moist, like a summer afternoon after a shower. Thicker. He opened his eyes, surprised he'd closed them, and gasped.

No more mountains or jagged ridges. Instead, they were descending beside a wall of black stone, smooth and sheer. Above was heavy cloud, dark and stormy. The wall disappeared into it, as if it went through the sky. To either side, it curved like the sides of a bowl into the distance. Below was featureless gray, more cloud, the kind that formed against the ground.

Drawn by an irresistible pull, his head turned away from the wall to face an otherwise identical section of the lowermost cloud. A Chooser's Call…sweet, rich. More…Om'ray! Vyna! The esan had brought him where he had to be. Enris laughed and thumped its leg in gratitude.

As if this had been an expected signal, the claws loosened.

Desperately, Enris grabbed hold, his no-longer pinned arm hanging numb and useless from his shoulder. His feet scrabbled until they found purchase at the claw joints. There. Safe.

Stupid creature!

Thought Traveler would have enjoyed this, too, he grumbled to himself.

Hard to stay grim when every slip downward brought him closer to Vyna. What did they think of an Om'ray drifting down from the clouds? Enris grinned. Nothing like making a spectacular entrance.

The esan flexed its thin body, sucked in a deep breath, and let out one of its hideous screams.

Enris winced. Not going to impress the new Clan.

The new Clan…his new Clan, if they were what he hoped.

First he had to arrive in one piece. He searched the cloud below for any hint of what lay beneath. Nothing. The gray was impenetrable. The esan continued to descend. Its wings stilled abruptly, then began to beat in long, powerful strokes instead of quivering. He hadn't realized how bone-shaking the vibration had been until it stopped, and resisted the urge to pat the creature again.

The gray swallowed them. Tiny droplets caught on his eyelashes, the esan's hair, the threads of his coat. Enris licked them from the scales near his face. Not a drink, but the moisture relieved the dryness of his mouth and cracked lips. The mist pressed closer, until he could only see the rest of the esan during the down stroke of its front wings, when the mist swirled and parted for an instant.

Then, they were clear.

Black rock loomed out of nowhere. They were too close to the ground!

Enris let go and threw himself in a frantic roll to the side as the esan's leading wing struck. It screamed again and again, claws scratching as it fought to stay upright. A final heave from all six limbs, a crack like thunder of wing against rock, and it disappeared into the mist.